


End of the Rail Line

by cilceon



Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [13]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blood and Violence, Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29839095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: Normally I would put a snippet of the story here...but not this time since anything I put will be a spoiler for the story. So you're gonna have to take my word for it when I say this ones really good & it wont hurt you at all :) Promise...(inspiration was taken from the quest, end of the line)
Relationships: Deacon & Female Sole Survivor, Deacon & Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992751
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	End of the Rail Line

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for this one gang, major character death ahead

_“The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for._

_And the most you can do is live inside that hope._

_Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.”_   
  


_\- Barbara Kingsolver -_

Deacon placed his hand on the pawn closest to him, moving it forwards on the board. It was the smallest piece in the game. Representing laborers and the farmers. In regard to the Railroad, they were the tourist. There were more tourists in play than any other piece on the board. Often they were sacrificed to save the more valuable pieces.

He read somewhere once that back in mediaeval times surfs were considered little more than property of landowners. And in that long-forgotten piece of history, life was ferociously difficult. People worked hard and died young – much like they did now. These pieces were often left unprotected while wars raged on around them. Ones they couldn’t imagine the scope of. They could be traded, used as a diversion, or sacrificed for others to avoid danger.

He like to think that their pawns – their tourists were more than that. Deacon wanted to believe that they were not so easily disposable. Rarely were they used for diversions per say, but they were just as easily tossed to the side when their work held no value.

With a soft clatter Desdemona moved her rook, taking the pawn he had just set. The rook was the castle piece of the chess board. It was the home, the refuge. Whatever hole the Railroad found themselves in at any given time. It couldn't move many spaces, just enough to escape capture from the opposing side. They were the safe house heads. High rise, Caretaker, Mister Tims. The string pullers of the string pullers.

They continue the dance of taking each other’s pawns then he decided to move a knight. The knight, the professional soldier whose job it was to protect persons of rank. They were more important than the pawns but less so than rooks, bishops kings and queens. Their purpose in the game was to protect the more important ones around them. They could just as easily be sacrificed as pawns could, though there was less of them and the impact would be greater. These were the runners, Drummer Boy’s charges. Often it was a thankless position to hold – but a vital one.

Desdemona moved a bishop, the piece used to represent the church when churches where places of religious worship. The bishop specifically represented a priest of the Catholic Church who had climbed through the ranks to reach a more powerful position. They were also the second fastest moving pieces of the board, deadly and efficient. Easily overlooked and underestimated. The heavy; Glory, Wanderer, himself in some regards.

The queen was the only piece on the board that represented a woman and was the most powerful piece in the game. He thought back to the book that spoke of the powerful – yet precarious position the queen held. The king was often guided by her advice. In many cases the queen played games of intrigue at court, making decisions under the watch of the king. Her reach was farther and she could move without being noticed unlike him. The Third and Second, himself and Carrington.

Dez nudged her king a space, the movement sounding heavier than the ones prior. It was the tallest piece and as well defended on the chess board as was the woman across from him. The surrender of the king would mean the loss of the empire to invading enemies. It was to everyone's advantage – from the lowest farmer to the highest ranking official, to keep the king safe from harm. The king was the most important yet not the most powerful piece in chess. If it wasn’t protected, the game was lost. This was where things got muddy. Desdemona was the head, yes. But if she were to fall another would rise to take her place.

Both of them knew that it was Wanderer they truly could not lose. She was their access to the Institute and the leader of the Minutemen to boot. If he lost Wanderer, he'd lose everything they had climbed up to reach.

They were so close, yet so far from their goal.

Their game was interrupted by the clicking of the password lock leading to HQ being undone. As Deacon looked towards the door he already knew that it was going to be Wanderer, though it was odd she was using the main entrance instead of the back way like she normal would.

“Check mate.” Dez said the words triumphantly, folding her arms across her chest from her place. There was a tinge of something cold in her voice – a tinge that had never been directed to him. It made him feel cold. At her words he looked from the hallway back to the board between them. Desdemona had his king on its last legs. His queen – the only hope for the sorry chest piece had already been taken out of the picture, though he was unsure of when that happened.

He looked to the door where Wanderer should have been coming down from, in the moment she was more important than the game in front of him.

“Deacon.” Desdemona once again tore his attention from the door. “It's your move. Don't tell me you're giving up.” The edge in her voice was still there – it was getting sharper.

Wanderer move down the stairs now, his attention fully away from the job at hand. Her steps echoed louder than he thought possible in the small space that was the catacombs. They seem to be reverberating off of every surface in the tomb. The space had never felt so suffocating as it did in that moment. Deacon look back to his last remaining chest piece; all of the opposing ones were still in play. He hadn't removed a single piece from the playing field.

The score was never close to being even.

“Traitor.” What fury had been wrought to make Glory sound like that? “You goddamn traitor!”

There was a clattering as the inhabitants of the tomb climbed to their feet. Each scurried sound was deafening. Glory stood between Dez and Wanderer, the monster that was her mini gun drawn heavily in front of her. In any other situation – had this been _anyone_ else, Glory would not have hesitated. But Wanderer was her friend so she did.

In the space of that mistake Wanderer spoke. “G7-81 initiate reset. Authorization code Beta 3 Cirrus.” and Glory fell. The poster child of a liberated synth dropped to the floor, like she was nothing more than a discarded doll in a child’s game. The rage her expression had once held was replaced with – nothing. It wasn't even like she was sleeping; it could only be described as the absence of everything that made Glory, Glory. Hollow nothingness. It would have been better if Wanderer had killed her, in essence she had.

Wanderer stood over Glory. Her normal soft and kind features distorted into disinterest like she had just spotted an annoying fly away. Her eyes were cold, clinical. The warmth and the hope they always held so brightly, replaced with contempt. Opposed to everyone else in the grave Wanderer’s clothes were unnaturally clean. They were almost white, a color he had not seen so starkly in such a long time. Not a single blood stain or tear was in her shirt, her black hair was tide in a meticulously done bun with not a single fly away. The small tendril of hair that always came unhooked from behind her ear and fluttered in the wind was missing. Deliverer was drawn at her side, something she had never done in HQ before.

There were two men behind her, on either side. Men that he did not recognize with stares that were just as cold as hers. Stares of disinterest Deacon had been lucky to have only seen from a distance until this moment. They were coursers.

It was Tom who spoke next. He had pushed Drummer Boy behind himself, turning into a human shield that he knew would do nothing. “I liked you, y-you bastard. You were our family.”

Deacon’s breathe caught in his throat. With a painful slowness Wanderer turned her head to the side, towards the two men. The movement was impassive, nearly robotic. It felt like he was full of lead as he watched her lift her gun – Tommy Whisper’s gun. The one that he had given her. The one he insisted that she take as he placed it in her hand himself, so there was no option of refusal in its taking. Wanderer lifted that very gun now in one fluid, chilling motion. Not even taking the courtesy to aim as she pulled the trigger.

One single bullet laced through Tinker Tom’s skull and continuing threading itself through Drummer Boy’s. They fell as they would often laugh – together. Blood pooled around their bodies, following into the grout lines of the stones until it reached him like those painted up above that led to The Old North Church.

Wanderer lowered the gun, not sparing the corpses of her friends a glance as she took a step over Glory’s. The woman was nothing but at discarded bishop in a game of chess, affectively removed by the opposing king that hid as another. As she moved so did the two men at her sides. One took down Morse, then Terry. In tandem, the other silenced Mr. Smiley and Vermilion. The weight of their bodies echoed across the flag stones with each hit. More blood filled the cracks, more blood reached him.

Carrington spoke. Deacon did not take his eyes from Wanderer. The doctor's voice was full of a venom that matched Glory's. “I knew we should have killed you.” What followed was the sound of bones snapping then a thud. Blood crawled out of Carrington’s mouth and it flowed towards him as well.

He moved to stand between Desdemona and Wanderer – the way Tom had for Drummer. Deacon knew he would not prove any better barrier than his brother had.

“We trusted you,” Desdemona spat from over his shoulder, her voice shaking with pain. “You will burn in hell for this.”

Wanderer tilted her head to the side, looking right through Deacon to the other woman. Her eyes were vacant, as if they weren’t even in front of her.

Dez continued, fury bubbling over, “I should _never_ have listened to Deacon. I shou-”

She fired, this shot going right over his shoulder. Right into Desdemona.

“Were you going to say that you should stop talking?” Her tone was cynical – hollow. “Because yes. You should stop talking.”

Desdemona had her hands clamped around her throat like a vice grip. Blood seeped through her fingers and ran down her mouth and chin, into the floor with the other’s. The whole of the ground was red now, blood up to his ankles. It was rising. Wanderer was untouched by it. She looked so clean. Like this world wasn't something she was ever a part of.

The leader of the Railroad crumbled to her knees, rasping out words Deacon couldn't conceive as he fell with her, cradling her failing body.

Wanderer barked out a laugh that held no humor. “Hm, what’s that? Do you need Stanley? Oh, dear Doctor Carrington? There’s a patient here to see you.” Wanderer looked down at the gun, inspecting it thoughtfully the way Kellogg had when they confronted him so long ago. “I’m sorry dear, it seems the doctor’s busy. Don’t worry though, I’m a trained professional.”

Her head was tilted to the side and once more she lifted Deliverer. A flick of the wrist and another shot went through Desdemona. This one embedding itself into her forehead. She wasn't as heavy in his arms as he remembered a dead body being before.

Deacon stood, letting Dez fall into the pool below him. He was the only one left. Again. “Why would you betray us? Betray me?”

Her expression remained unchanged, “How could I possibly betray you if I was never on your side to begin with.”

“X5-77.” One of the coursers spoke from PAM’s room, “Have you completed our objective?”

She kept her eyes on Deacon with her response. “Return to Father. I will be there shortly.”

 _No._ No. This wasn’t Wanderer.

“Aw, have we finally figured it out?” She looked back to the gun and then to him. “She was so confident, saying you'd see through me in less than an hour of my arriving. Yet here it was taking you thirty-six days and twelve hours. Truly you are such a disappointment” The courser ended the sentence with a name. A name he had not spoken out loud to Wanderer. One that she never knew was his, though she had spoken it before.

Deacon balled his hands into fists, an insurmountable rage going through him, “What did you do to her.”

“I didn't do anything.” The courser shrugged. “Sweet little Wanderer’s … well let's say she's resting. Charlotte caused quite a scene when we told her what was going on. I believe she's tried escaping six times - no, seven times if I include the one forty-eight minutes ago; when I received the pleasure to inform her that I was killing you myself. Of course, when I report back in, she’ll be told you died thinking it was her who ended this mess.”

She had been gone and he hadn’t noticed. It was his job to know everything, but he didn’t see this. How could he have not seen this?

“Oh? What, you're not going to say anything? No final words to send to your most beloved when I return? This is going to destroy her you know.”

“Do not call her that.” He hissed through grated teeth.

“You’re pathetic.” She brought Deliverer to his head. Fitting that he’d be killed by the very gun he gave to one of the people he loved most.

A loud bang and yelp woke Deacon from his nightmare, causing him to bolt upright in the tiny cot he stashed in one of the less frequented corners of HQ so quickly that he's head began to spin. Carrington's voice followed soon after.

“Jesus Tom! Can you please not run your experiments while I’m performing surgery?”

“Especially when there's a pair of tweezers god knows how deep inside of me.” Wanderer hissed, trying to hide the pain she was in from the sudden movement.

“Aw Come on.” Glory sounded amused, “It makes the shrapnel scavenger hunt inside your shoulder more entertaining.”

Wanderer groaned, “Glory please, you should stop talking.”

“Me? Never.” Despite whatever was happening the two women seemed joyful in the endeavor.

“Quit moving.” Carrington chided; the normal malice absent from his tone.

Deacon moved to stand fully from his place and as he did so, Wanderer clocked his movement. There was a grimace on her face that she tried to turn into a smile. He returned the gesture. It was moments like this that he was thankful he slept with the glasses on. He was certain she would see the remains of panic in his eyes without them. Wanderer returned her attention back to Glory who was trying to distract her from Carrington’s machinations.

As that happened, Deacon took stock of the residence of the catacombs. Morse was at her usual desk tapping away as she decoded a message sent in from a safe house. Tom and his boys, Terry and Mr. Smiley, were doing… something in the designated Tom Experiment Corner. Vermilion, Drummer, and Desdemona were going over a supply run in the cistern turned table in the room. A cigarette glowed in Dez’s hand, illuminating the chess board that had been turned into a coaster, housing several glasses and mugs filled with various amounts of coffee.

At peace with everyone’s wellbeing, he took in a deep breath. Release the tension in her shoulders and jaw then turned to walk into PAM’s room.

Wanderer had insisted months ago that they cleaned the place up. And by ‘they’ it was mostly just her and Drummer Boy that did the work. But since then, PAM’s space had felt larger, the whole of HQ safer. It was such a small gesture but he saw how the mood had shifted with each fallen brick moved out of sight. Desdemona was smoking less, Carrington’s complaints quieted some – not as much as Deacon would’ve liked, but he couldn’t have everything he supposed.

There have been times where Wanderer had even cooked for them in a giant soup pot that had been pulled down from a backroom within the church above. It was some kind of stew most times but no one ever objected to it. She'd coerce everyone down there to stop what they were doing – for even just a moment, to sit and enjoy a cooked meal. Terry tried to keep up the tradition while she was away, but he could never get the broth just like hers, though she had tried several times to teach him. They used to be rare moments, where Tom wasn't fidgeting, Dez wasn't smoking and there was no worry – but they grew with the more time Wanderer spent in HQ. Like she was some tree extending its branches and leaves over them so they may rest in the shade.

They would all crowd around Tom’s couch, bringing chairs from the desks and sitting in a large circle talking. Normally Deacon would just listen, the others told such wonderful stories that he saw no reason to interject until conversations stilled and a new topic was needed. Like he was gently stoking a fire before it died.

Overtime, the agents of the Railroad who crowded underneath a church turned it into a nightly tradition. Sometimes an agent had something more pressing and they could join for no more than a minute. But no matter how stressed Desdemona got she always tried to make an appearance and Carrington seemed disappointed when he had a medical emergency to deal with during the time slot.

It was always quieter when Glory was away but was still full of life. When she would return from a job, her laugh would reverberate off the walls more fiercely. Making it feel like it wasn't a tomb they were in but a castle of their own. When Wanderer joined them – which were the times he was mostly there as well, one of the members of the family would ask her a question about the world before. She would smile sadly and oblige with an answer. With each passing time she began giving longer responses, the pain subsiding and she turned to telling stories and memories.

Wanderer had that effect on people. She made him believe that the world had a chance and it made him insurmountably sad to have someone make him feel that way once more.

Upon entry into PAM’s room, he saw that she looked to be in her sleep mode. Well, she wouldn't be for much longer. Deacon dove his hands into his pockets, casually leaning back against the wall opposite the assaultron. With anyone else PAM spoke the second someone got within five feet of her. Sensors alerting her upon their arrival, waking her up. Deacon once again was the exception, since Pam hated him and all that.

“Heya PAM.” He kept his voice low, knowing PAM would match his register.

“Greeting token recognized. Setting human/machine interface to one hundred percent. Hello, Agent Deacon.”

Knowing PMA backlogged every word spoken to her, he picked his words carefully. “I got a question for you, strictly hypothetical.”

PAM brought her head up to look at him. “Caution. Biological life forms behave erratically. Unpredictably. All output subject to an extremely high margin of error.”

“Yeah, yeah I know PAM. You say that every time.” Deacon sighed.

“Correct. What is your query?”

“I’d like it to stay on the downlow.”

“Switching into Agent Deacon’s subfolder…” He had a subfolder? “Operation complete. Reminder. Only Railroad Alpha will have access to conversation upon request. I repeat: what is your query?”

There was a mirror above the lockers that was angled in just the right way to see through the door from where he was leaning, giving Deacon enough time to change the topic should someone walk through the door. “What is the likelihood that Wanderer will be replaced with a courser from the Institute.” 

“Reminder. All predictions on the rogue variable are extremely-”

“I know PAM.”

“Likelihood of Agent Wanderer being replaced with a synth courser equivalent is marginally higher than any other agent, at 33.776 percent. This percentage is largely affected by solitary operations Agent Wanderer is assigned.”

Deacon chewed on the inside of his cheek. “What is the likelihood of her being replaced by a courser while still in Vault 111?”

“Requesting information. Is Agent Deacon aware both Railroad Alpha and Agent Wanderer have asked this query?”

He wasn’t. “Of course, PAM.”

“Pausing human/machine interface. Calculating. Processing. Odds of rogue variable being replaced with an Institute courser before arrival into organization Railroad lowers with the growth of time spent in organization. Currently the likelihood is at 74.63 percent.”

The hold his molars had on his cheek tightened, eyes not leaving the mirror. He could see Wanderer’s back in the glass. It looked like Carrington was trying to convince her to let him stitch up her bullet wound. By the expression on his face and the animated movements of her hands, the good doctor wasn't winning. Glory had her arms crossed over her chest, looking at the pair with a soft smile uncharacteristic for her. If she glanced towards the doorway, Glory would see him talking with PAM.

PAM continued, “Further information regarding Institute’s intention with the child of rogue variable is required to greatly impact prediction. Resuming human/machine interface. Has Agent Deacon acquired more information on Agent Wanderer?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t like stitches.” He continued watching the scene in the other room, their voices were muffled but he could have sworn he head Carrington call Wanderer a child and she call him a… clampet? He'd have to ask Nick Valentine what that word meant the next time he swung by diamond city.

“Noted. Adding trypanophobia to Agent Wanderer’s file.”

“She’ll kick my ass if she finds out I told you that PAM.”

“Irrelevant.”

“That breaks my heart old girl.” If Deacon didn’t know any better, he’d think PAM didn’t like him all that much. Glory put her hand on Carrington’s shoulder then stood to walk towards the room. Not good. “Looks like we need to wrap up our convo.”

“Acknowledged. Resuming sleep mode. Goodbye.” Her head lowed to its previous position, the whirling of her motors slowing.

“Hey, Deacon.” Glory stuck her head through the door. “Mind coming out here and telling Wanderer that you’ll be sad if she doesn’t get these stitches or something before Carrington pops a head vein and passes out?” There was still a smile on Glory’s face that said that she wouldn’t mind watching that event playout.

He made a playful tisking sound as he pushed off the wall. “Kids these days am I right?” Deacon walled through into the catacombs to be in the same room as his family.

“She’s older than you are.” Glory rumbled out a laughed, full of life. Full of Glory.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what y'all though of this one! Comments are the number one reason I keep writing these & they make my day  
> I'll have a happier one out soon xx  
> -lyss


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